


Feeling

by qaolu



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Emotionally Repressed, Infidelity, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 20:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4236261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qaolu/pseuds/qaolu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Closure is non-existent; emptiness is ever-present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feeling

Miles knows he should feel something; grateful that a holy force brought him back into the world, a mechanical force, or perhaps even one of magic, or merely the creature found within him. Guilty that there is blood on his hands and his feet and his soul is soiled and stained, the absence of light and the presence of another, gunshots when he closes his eyes. Gifted for the ability to wake at night and devour his own sins, cigarettes under the sheets and tobacco leaves in the sleeves.

But he doesn't.

Waylon knows he should feel something; grateful that his children have a father who is flesh and blood and alive, pulsating. Guilty that his children have a father that they will forget in time, a box on the attic stairs, sepia colored and dust covered. Gifted for the miracle that is his heartbeat, thundering away, lightning collecting in spider webs and storm clouds, locked up in the chest of his body and the static of his mind.

But he doesn't.

Miles only feels when he's fucking Waylon into the mattress, too busy with licking hot stripes down stomach, taking time with a peach pit already festered with worms; he cums all over Waylon’s face and only stops when the fungi starts sprouting around the rotten fruit. He only feels when he's inhaling and exhaling, puncturing holes in his lungs when he looks over at Waylon, hair messy and eyes glassy, heaving over the toilet seat.

Waylon only feels when he has Miles between his legs, five o'clock shadow and the silhouettes of a coat on the couch; he is the morning spent lying in bed with Miles and lying with Lisa. He only feels when he doesn't take his meds and sees colors not in the spectrum, not eating and not breathing and not inside of his own head.

Miles kisses hard, writes harder, ballpoint pen on the balls of his feet and the point of his word, the arch of his brow and the edge of his sword.

Waylon cries hard, spits harder, sighs so hard his lungs flood with ocean spray at every step he takes, sandpaper tongues and salt in the wounds.

Miles sinks his teeth into flesh, drawing blood, freckled backside and open spine, malleable joints that crack with wear. There are bullet holes and fingerprints, Waylon cleans, and the Walrider feasts.

Waylon unfolds in the bed, seams splitting open, breaking points and boiling points and an unfilled prescription. There are glasses of water, Miles nurses, and the Walrider hums.

They both know they should feel something, but all they felt is at Mount Massive, in classified manila folders and disclosed information, and all they feel now is an emptiness; an emptiness only forgotten in the company of one as empty as themselves. Miles knows he should tell Waylon about the divorce papers sitting in the mailbox, ghosts of the past and demons of the present.

But he doesn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first ao3/outlast fic  
> uhhh. yeah


End file.
